Fall from Grace
by cheertennis12
Summary: Nick shows up on Amanda's doorstep hurt, confused, and angry, not knowing that his words will hit a little too close to home / another one-shot compliant with the "Those Graces" universe


**I had so much fun writing this last fanfic-of-a-fanfic that I just had to do it again. No worries, I haven't abandoned Waiting, just haven't had the time I need to rewatch some episodes to get the details straight. and THEN, dang lucyspencer had to go and update Those Graces with a chapter that killed us all, so this is just retaliation. Sorry, not sorry.**

 **Again, this story is based off of another fanfic, where the premise is Olivia caught in this tug-o-war between Brian and Elliot. In this specific chapter, Nick is still staying with Olivia and Brian after the shooting, and they're all invited to "brunch" at the Stabler's house, where Liv engages in some, uh, "extracurricular activities" with the host.**

 **Thanks again to Lucy again for creating the TV universe in the first place, and to Colleen for a large chunk of this story's premise. Lyrics from John Mayer's "Gravity"**

* * *

 _{Oh I'll never know what makes this man  
_ _With all the love that his heart can stand  
_ _Dream of ways to throw it all away}_

You roll over with a groan, fixing your eyes on the clock that adorns your nightstand as you're awakened by an incessant banging on your front door.

2:13pm.

Ugh.

It's reminiscent of your uni days, where you'd plod through a 6-6 night shift, come home and crash, and then whine when the world expected you to be a functional human being by early afternoon. Except you hadn't been busting perps on the streets of Atlanta the night before… or New York for that matter. No, you'd collapsed into bed as the sun peeked over the horizon, after a night doing things that you could never bring to light.

"I'm coming, I'm _coming_..." You grumble to no one in particular. It's certainly not loud enough for anyone to hear, and that's not your intention in the first place. You throw your hair up into a ponytail and grab a flannel out of your laundry to shrug over the sheer tank top you'd fallen asleep in before begrudgingly heading toward the door.

The knocking continues, the racket magnified by Frannie's excited whines, and you grab her by the collar to keep her from pouncing on your caller as you reach for the lock with your other hand.

"Nick?" You squint your eyes, letting go of your four legged friend, and she attacks his face with slobbery kisses as he squats down to greet her.

"Uh, hey…" He grins sheepishly when he finally looks up at you. "I didn't, um… wait, you weren't still asleep were you?"

"I was getting up." You lie.

"Rough night?"

"Something like that."

"Oh…" he looks at you, his eyes radiating concern. It's a knife to your heart, that you've gotten him worked up and worried like this, when all it was was a horrible hangover and the remnants of a regrettable night out. Because you can't tell him the truth, that you'd spent the night wheeling and dealing in a warehouse basement somewhere deep in the bowels of Brooklyn. Nick _can't_ find out. Because him... _this_ , it might be the only good thing you have going for you, and you can't afford to screw it up.

"Yeah. But I'm feeling a lot better." Your smile is forced, but it at least seems to get him off your back.

You still can't figure out what he's doing here, and even more so, why he didn't call first, and the question tumbles out of your mouth before you can even exercise enough caution to stop it. He shoots you a knowing grin and asks _where_ your phone is, and sure enough, you have a plethora of missed calls and messages, all from his number. Thank God you hadn't been on call, although your late night activities would certainly have been different had that been the case. You weren't that far gone.

Yet.

 _{Oh Gravity is working against me  
And gravity wants to bring me down}_

Twenty minutes later, and you're standing in front of the stove, whipping up a hefty dose of grits and eggs—the perfect hangover cure and well worth the effort, as your college days had quickly taught you. You offer him a helping for about the thirteenth time, and he politely refuses yet again, mentioning that he'd just scarfed down his own brunch.

"Right." You snap your fingers and whirl around to point at home, nearly knocking your skillet onto the floor in the process. A devilish grin spreads across your face—how could you have forgotten? "You had that thing at Stablers this morning!"

"Uh, yeah…"

"How'd it go?"

"It was awful; those girls—the one you met and then there's another sister—they're merciless! They acted like I was… like they…" A crimson tint spreads across his face.

"Like they wanted to push you up against a wall and do you right then and there?" The words come spewing from your mouth like word vomit, before you can even consider conceding to better judgment. Because no, that's not what *you* were thinking about right now or anything of the sorts. (Because damn, he looked _good_ in that vintage tee and five o'clock shadow.)

But still, it elicits your intended reaction: a laugh from Nick. "Ha! Stabler is a prick, he would have had his hands around my neck had I even looked at one of his daughters the wrong way. 'Sides, they're a little… overzealous."

You laugh at the insinuation, because you can only imagine the scene at hand. Elliot Stabler manhandling Nick like Wile E. Coyote feuding with Roadrunner while… Kathleen? and the others stared on a la Pepé Le Pew. You can't blame the girls, though – he is a sight for sore eyes. But _your_ sore eyes.

"So, did Liv manage to keep it in her pants with Peeta and Gale in the same room?" You tease, scooping your meal into a bowl and shoveling the first bite into your mouth on your way to the couch. Nick trails behind you, and to your surprise, he fails to acknowledge your Hunger Games reference. Of course, that's not a movie he would have taken his seven year old to see, and Gil… well, Gil was too wrapped up in his video games to care much about the outside world, at least from Nick's recount of his waning time with his son. He squints his eyes and cocks his head, and it's enough to elicit a self-conscious 'never mind' from you.

"I just…" He sinks into the cushion beside you, pinching the bridge of his nose as he lets out an exasperated sign "Liv… I know she has—is still going through all kinds of terrible shit. Okay, so I feel for her. But I don't understand how she can keep doing this. I mean, fucking her boyfriend this morning… yeah, I know, but trust me, she is not as quiet as she thinks…. and not even six hours later she's sneaking off to the garage to do her side job when his _wife_ is on the other side of the wall?!"

You bite your lip in hesitation. For one, you do _not_ want to know how loud, or quiet, or _anything_ about your boss's sexual preferences. But Nick, he's a loaded cannon, simmering underneath the pressure, and you're hesitant to put a halt to this rare show of vulnerability. He doesn't qualify his confession with a resounding 'don't repeat this' like he did even the last time you ventured into this discussion. He trusts you—and you trust him.

"I know she's trying to hold her life together right now. I get it… we all do. But why does she have to be such a… such a—"

 _«You're just a little slut aren't you? You throw yourself at every guy in the department, and now what? Now you're holding out on me, sweetheart?»_

"God. I don't want to talk shit about Liv, but cheating on Cassidy? With her married ex-partner? That's not Liv! And I'm so fucking pissed that she would—that she would _do_ that, and that they would even think about doing that to her! Everyone should know better! But shit, what does she think she's doing!?"

Nick's fists are clenched so tightly that they're white, and shaking from the tension. You're trying hard, so hard not to react, but your stomach is in knots and you can feel your heart pounding so fast that you're certain it's audible to the naked ear. Because you, you get it. You've been there, the girl who gets hurt, and has something to prove to everyone, and proves it in all the wrong ways. You _can't_ let him be the last thing you feel on your skin before you lay down to sleep, and there's nothing you can do to take away the filth except to be covered again.

By _anyone_. By the random guy at the bar, the uni who'd given you heart eyes ever since he graduated the academy, hell, even your married captain. _Almost_. You'd come to your senses before that one set sail.

 _«Darlin' you know by now I don't take no for an answer. No, you're not goin' anywhere. You're gonna lay here nice and quiet and spread those pretty legs and give me what you promised.»_

"Is this just part of PTSD? I mean, even Maria, for Chrissakes, and whatever the hell was going on with her and that battle buddy of hers. For all I know, she was screwing him too! Is this what women do, when shit happens to them? They just find the first available dick and attach themselves to it; throw themselves at whoever they can find, damn the consequences? Damn the _kids_?"

 _«You think anyone will believe you? Or would they rather believe a story about how a little girl was a little too big for her britches and got in over her head and threw herself at her superior to work her way up in the world, and that poor unfortunate soul just had a moment of weakness. Because darlin', it can go whichever way your pretty little head wants, now you think about that.»_

 _'It's not personal. Nonono, it's not personal, Amanda. It's not you, he doesn't know'_ you repeat over and over again. He doesn't know, he can't know, about Atlanta, about your past and present demons, about that season that you threw yourself at man after man to fill that void left by what was so excruciatingly ripped from your pride. You've been there, you've done it.

"And I don't get—" You can't let him keep doing this, because sooner or later, you're going to crack. Your sobs are muted as you throw your empty dish onto the coffee table and crash your lips into his. You catch him off guard, but it's the only way you know how to do this, the only way you know to comfort him, and yourself, and to shut him up without having to allow anyone closer than arms length, because no, you're too broken for anyone to see.

You want it fast, and rough, and unbridled, and Nick follows your lead without hesitation. He matches you movement for movement, tangling his fingers in your hair as you bite down on the skin where neck meets shoulder, and ohgodyes. And before you know it, you're coming undone, and he's right behind you, and you collapse on the couch in a heap of sweat and tangled limbs.

But as you come down, you only feel emptier, because those words he said, about Olivia, and about Maria, and you, they still linger there, taunting you with every syllable. If that's what he thinks, it's all you'll ever be to him, and damn it if he knows or not, you can't separate yourself from the person you've become.

The tears are streaming down your face before you can hold them back. You've never understood those girls who can manage to look cute and sweet as they fall apart, because you sure as hell aren't one of them. You're a champion of the ugly, uninhibited cry, and today is no different.

 _«Don't cry, sweetheart. I'm a real gentleman, I'll take care of you»_

You hide it as best you can, but it's little more than a lost cause.

 _{Oh gravity, stay the hell away from me  
And gravity has taken better men than me}_

Poor Nick. As if his afternoon wasn't already confusing enough, you'd left him to clean himself (and your couch) up as you darted for the shower, with no open invitation for him to follow.

You crank the knob to the hottest setting and let the water wash over you, removing all traces of Nick, and of Patton, and of the line of men that had traipsed in and out of your bed and your life. But you know, you'll never be totally washed clean. It's a vicious cycle and the effort is lost just as soon as you take a breath on the outside.

But you try, just like always, only to be hit with the startling realization that you're just. like. her: a little broken and a little more lost.

You slide on a pair of shorts and pull an old APD tshirt out of your dresser drawer, but on second thought, no. Even the garment is a reminder of everything you want to forget, so you settle for a Yankees tee instead.

With great hesitation, you emerge from your bedroom to find Nick sprawled out on the couch, stroking Frannie's head where it rests in his lap. Both perk up when they hear the door creak open, and Nick gently pushes Frannie away to stand up and make his way over to you.

"You okay?" He asks sincerely, resting his arms on your shoulders slowly, slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away before he commits fully after your unprecedented freak-out a half hour before.

You take a deep breath and swallow hard, because as always, you're _fine_.

As fine as you'll ever be.

 _{Just keep me where the light is  
Just keep me where the light is  
Just keep me where the light is}_


End file.
